


Angel Hands

by caitreylove



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Paris (City), Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitreylove/pseuds/caitreylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'ghostfree' Opera Populaire reopens. A cynical ghost matches wits with the manager's daughter in a game of love, lust, betrayal, power and fortune...the game of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mireille Dubienne was a spinster.

A pushy, sour-faced, and unfortunately educated spinster of twenty-seven. There was really nothing her father could do with her except to keep her busy, working for him as a kind of private secretary. It was a job she was well-suited to, being pragmatic, detail-oriented and persistent. It was the only job she could do, as keeping house and making babies seemed well out of the running for her.

Mireille adjusted the thin spectacles up the bridge of her nose as she stirred a precise amount of sugar – one and a half spoons – into her demitasse of café. Her father glanced at her across the breakfast table and held in a small sigh of disappointment.

It wasn't that she was unmarried that bothered him. It was that she seemed unhappy, and that the smiling, laughing girl that had been his total joy and light had drowned in a darkness that had crept upon her as quietly but surely as night overtook day.

It also wasn't that she was unattractive – for a spinster. She had soft coils of honey-colored hair and hazel eyes that tended more toward green than brown. Her features were small, and though not remarkable, perfectly nice-looking. She was slender and moved with a coiled grace.

Pierre Dubienne released his sigh as he sipped his café. His happy little Mireille had seemed to dissolve into the impenetrable mists of some dark, quiet woman who had forsworn love and all the coquetteries and courting that accompanied it. At times, he caught himself thinking of her in the way he would have thought of a son – a man of affairs with a keen mind and an unshakable sense of honor.

Well, there would be no son to inherit the Dubienne fortune, but Mireille would be an admirable guardian of it. But Pierre Dubienne would have traded every last sou if he could only have seen his daughter smile with the light of love in her eyes.

"Eh bien, ma cherie, you really think that this is a good idea?" Pierre asked, tackling a piece of toast with a knife loaded with butter.

"It's a sound investment," Mireille replied, taking small, careful bites of her croissant. "It will all depend on the way we promote the reopening, but that is not hard to do well. And I have an idea that will not fail to fill every seat on opening night, or for many nights after that."

"Oh dear, Mireille," Pierre laughed. "You know how I worry when you begin to talk like that. You are so frightfully…"

"Competent?"

"Exactly!" the older man chuckled. "So, shall I go ahead and sign the papers tomorrow?"

"Please do," Mireille replied evenly. "And by the end of the week, I hope to present you with my plan, complete with budget, for the restoration and reopening of the Opera Populaire."

"So frightfully…"

"Competent?"

"Frightfully competent, my dear," Pierre said with a smile that was tinged with sadness. "Have you ever thought of being a little less…"

"No."

Pierre sighed. "I didn't think so."  
_______________________________________________________

The quest for redemption and a normal life had lasted all of three months. It wasn't that Christine's kiss had dimmed in his memory or that its effect had diminished. The holy fervor he felt when he recalled her touch still made him weak in the knees and clutch at his throat in an agony of ecstatic adoration and pain.  
It was simply that there were certain practicalities of life that had not changed, even if he had. And one of those practicalities, unfortunately, was the fact that half of Paris' gendarmerie was out for his blood.

He had plenty of money in his bank account, but a fat lot of good it did him when he couldn't walk into a bank to withdraw it, or couldn't rent a flat without meeting the well-meaning and suspicious concierge, or…or…

Without Madame Giry, he was a prince disguised as a pauper, reduced to shadows and thievery, despite the millions of francs in the name of Erik de Persie in the vaults of Credit Lyonnais.

In the end, he had slunk back to the burned out hulk of the opera house, taking refuge in the ruined crypt he had once called home. It had taken him the better part of three years to make the place habitable again and to rig up certain basic functions within the opera house so that he could have some comfort.

He foraged for food and clothing, burgling shops far enough a field from the opera house that no one would suspect the return of the opera ghost.

The one advantage he had – meager and measly compared to all that he had to once again endure as a walking dead man – was that now that the opera house was empty, he could climb to the roof and bask in the warmth of the sunlight without fearing to be seen. But that was small consolation for living in a cave under an opera house.

And then…and then, that damn, blasted day when his sanctuary, his private cemetery, his final resting place was invaded! He watched from the flies as two older gentlemen and a young woman picked their way across the charred, dusty debris that still lay strewn about the stage.  
"I say, Dubienne," quavered the first older man, removing his top hat to brush some dust off the top of it – immediately, Erik shifted so that more dust drifted down. "What about that ghost fellow? You think he's going to mind having some new managers?"

"Carcasonne, you are an unmitigated chump," the second older man chuckled. "Do you honestly think that the fellow would stay here? This place is like a tomb – cold enough to freeze a dog's balls off."

Carcasonne threw a shocked glance at the young woman, who seemed utterly unmoved by masculine language that was more suited to the smoking room than mixed company.

"Even so, I would be much happier if we sent some stout men down to the cellars to make sure that ghost is gone," he said with a frown.

"You'll do no such thing."

Erik started, almost having forgotten the presence of the young woman in the midst of his red rage at fate's cruel, cruel sense of humor. The young woman spoke quietly and forcefully, but without ever lifting her voice.

"In fact, if there isn't an opera ghost still in residence," she continued matter-of-factly, "I have a good mind to hire one."

"Hire one?" Carcasonne looked bewildered.

"Indeed." A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested she was pleased with her own cleverness. "After all, there are other venues for opera now. But there is only one place where patrons can come to experience a haunted opera house."

"I don't understand, Mademoiselle Dubienne."

"We promote the re-opening of the Opera Populaire as free of ghosts and tragedies," she said simply. "Then, we have an opening night where one or two little things are odd. People will talk. And not wanting to receive second-hand news, their friends will come to experience the delicious little thrill of a little bit of danger when something quite simple but quite significant goes wrong."

"My dear, what if the ghost fellow is still here?" Dubienne said.

"Then I'll pay him 5 francs for every 50 franc seat he fills."

Carcasonne let out a great guffawing laugh, then stopped abruptly, seeing that the young woman wasn't laughing and instead looked deadly serious.

"Look here, Mademoiselle Dubienne. You are quite well-meaning, but perhaps you had better leave these business affairs to your father and myself. Your ideas are quite charming, but I am afraid they are taxing your composure too much."

"Nonsense, Monsieur Carcasonne," the young woman replied crisply, a delicate shading of ice in her voice. "Don't be ridiculous. If we re-open as just another opera house, we shall be bankrupt by the end of the season. Our gimmick is our ghost, at least until we have our feet underneath us financially and can move on to the next scandal and sensation by stealing away the best and most renowned performers."

Carcasonne looked at Dubienne, appealing to him silently for support. But Dubienne was lost in admiration of his daughter's cleverness and business acumen.

"Well, I suppose I can live with a ghost for one season," Carcasonne sighed.

"Excellent," she said in an even, contented voice that implied she never expected it would turn out any differently.

Erik decided that when he did get a chance to kill that twit, he would do it slowly. Never mind being reformed, never mind promises. Never mind love. All of that was lost to him anyway. He was shunned by the world, sent back to his tomb by daylight that revealed his infamy. They wanted a ghost? They would have a ghost. A murderous ghost that would make that straw-haired chit his first victim.

He gasped as he reclined back against the wooden railing of the catwalk, sinking to his knees. He clutched at his heart as searing pain shot down his arm. Damn! Damn! Damn!

This was not the time to suffer an attack – not when he would need all of his strength to…manage…the construction process.

He grimaced into a future that was blacker than his past. A ghost he was born. A man he could have become. A demon he would die.

Oh, Christine…


	2. Chapter 2

At first, the workers had shaken their heads and cast searching, sidelong glances at the young woman who moved confidently among the foremen, the laborers and the various specialists and consultants.  
But the truth of the matter was that Mireille Dubienne was as demanding as any foreman, as hard-working as any laborer, and as wily as any consultant. In fact, her small pocket of an office was one of the first areas to be completed and ready for habitation. It only made sense, she pointed out, as she would be spending a large amount of time managing the reconstruction process and needed a central base for her operations.

And in a manner that Napoleon would have approved of, Mireille had proceeded to set the opera house to rights, in terms of building and staff, in a near-record amount of time. Within three months of the purchase by her father and M. Carcasonne, they had hired managing artistic director and were holding auditions on the refurbished main stage.

For the most part, Mireille let her father and M. Carcassonne wax poetic or critical about the performers, and then would quietly have a word with Raymond Le Fevre, the handsome young artistic director, about which performers truly deserved a call back or even a contract.

Four months after the purchase of the Opera Populaire, every staff member, every performer, every musician was ready to be marshaled by Raymond and Mireille into a militaristic schedule of rehearsals for the grand re-opening performance.

"Really, my dear, it is Sunday, after all," old Dubienne had said anxiously when he had come across his daughter already hard at work one morning. "At least in the name of the Lord, take a bit of time off."

"Would you say that to a man, father?"

"No. No, I suppose I wouldn't."

"Well then-"

"But you are still my daughter, and it doesn't change the fact that I love you and worry about you. The circles under your eyes are dreadful!"

Mireille gave him a ghost of a grim smile.

"I will rest after the opening night," she said.

"At least take a bit of time off tomorrow and go order a new dress for opening night."

Mireille gave him a deeply searching look that made the old man feel uncomfortable, as if his words had tickled the ugly underbelly of an emotion she had wished to keep hidden.

"Perhaps," she said evenly. "I will try to do it this week," she added more gently. "But my first concern is making sure that we have all the materials in for the set designer. The barges have been dreadfully slow coming into Paris due to the spring storms in the north."

Dubienne smile wanly and shook his head, his arthritic hands folded genteely over the head of his cane.

"By the by, Mireille," he remarked, turning to leave. "Seen any sign of our ghost fellow yet?"

She let out a light, cynical laugh. "No, indeed! But I plan to hold auditions for him starting the week after next."

Dubienne chuckled. "You are so...deliriously..."

"Devious?"

"Imaginative."

Mireille's lips twitched in a half-smile that was all genuine as her father left her small office.

Erik had a few other choice words to describe the indomitable Mademoiselle Dubienne: interfering, insensitive, and most of all, inconvenient.  
He sat behind the false panel at the back of the large armoir, breathing in the dank air of the small passageway and fuming. Audition for a ghost? Hire a ghost? Oh God, he was no longer even a figment of fear. He was a joke.

Every single day, he had watched the progress of the rebuilding of his opera house and his opera company. He found himself agreeing with Le Fevre, though thinking that the young man did not push the creative limits as much as he would have liked. He even grudgingly found himself accepting the fact that Mireille was a highly competent manager - far more intelligent and shrewd than any of the others who had preceded her in the position...though he had to remind himself that officially, M. Dubienne and M. Carcasonne were the owners and managers. But he, like everyone else at the Opera Populaire, knew who really pulled the strings. And it wasn't him.

Yet.

Day after day, he had observed Mireille, studying her like an animal in a cage. She puzzled him, and not in a good way. Her mind and demeanor were as cold and precise as...his. She had no troubles with the harsher sides of the business, firing people, dealing with construction workers, bankers and divas. She didn't show any of the feminine softness, sweetness or gullibility that had marked almost all the other women he had ever known - Christine included, but Madame Giry excluded. She was tough, fair and intelligent.

However was he going to manage to get her under his thumb?

Erik had decided early on in the process that if his opera house was going to reopen, he would simply have no choice but to take over once again. He knew he wouldn't be able to help himself. Despite bouts of despair and self-loathing, Erik had been busy 'helping' the construction along with his own modifications. He spied on the chorus, on the dancers, on the plasterers and stagehands. He memorized their names, the way they moved, the sounds of their voices. He learned their dirty little secrets.

He would have learned Mireille's dirty little secrets, except the blasted woman didn't seem to have any. Erik pondered for days, pacing back and forth in his lair, spying on Mireille in her office, and searching his memories of Christine for any hints about women that might help him in his quest to conquer the hard-headed manager.

Thinking about Christine was the hardest part, but he found he could stem the bile of self-loathing for short periods of time if he forced himself to look at the situation clinically, like a scientist.

It was only at night, when the opera house was empty, that his howls and sobs would echo off the frescoed walls and wrap around the gilt statues. It was only at night that he abandoned himself to the true irony and despair at this turn in his life. It was only at night that he wished and prayed for death.

Then morning would come, and there would be things to do.

_______________________________________________________

"I'm afraid that is not good enough, Labouche," Mireille said calmly, despite the fact that her head was aching and her eyes were tired from wearing her glasses all day. "The new gas lines must be inspected by Wednesday in order for us to receive permission to turn on the gas lighting. Next week is simply not an option."  
"But-"

"I expect to hear by lunchtime tomorrow that you have made the necessary arrangements for a Wednesday inspection."

"But-"

"Bribe them if you have to, Labouche."

"What!"

"Come now, monsieur, I expect you to do whatever it takes to get the job done. That will show me that you still want a job."

"Oh."

"Good evening, Labouche."

"Evenin' Mademoiselle Dubienne."

Mireille watched as Labouche left her rapidly darkening office. The one oil lamp on her desk was running low, but the dimness was easier on her eyes, so she didn't turn it up. In fact, she carefully removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes.

The smallest sound of a deliberate breath jerked her from her unguarded moment of fatigue.

"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, searching the lengthening shadows that swallowed her office in darkness.

"No, not God, mademoiselle. Simply a ghost."

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the rumbling, purring quality struck Mireille forcibly, making her struggle to get back in control of her wits. But once she was thinking clearly again, she was ready for battle.

"So, you are real after all," she drawled sarcastically.

"Hmmm. Quite," the voice replied, matching her tone precisely.

"And why reveal yourself to me tonight, Monsieur le Fantome?"

"I was bored."

Mireille chuckled, narrowing her eyes. "I am sorry," she said innocently. "But you must come back. Auditions for the opera ghost are not until next week."

"Why hire one when you already have one?"

"Why not? I would have to pay the ghost one way or another - for I am sure it won't be long until you're making monetary demands of me. But at least with an outside ghost, I can fire him if he pisses me off."

"Your candor is remarkable."

"A nice way to say fuc-"

"Tut, tut. Such language from a young lady"  
"You've heard me say worse, no doubt."

The silence acceded her point.

Mireille prayed that her wildly beating heart would slow and steady. It was taking every ounce of bravado and wit to keep her cool during this exchange. He had taken her by surprise...well, shocked the hell out of her to be perfectly accurate. But it was all happening too quickly for her to think much. She just had to brazen this through then think over the consequences later...consequences and opportunities...

"What is it that you want, monsieur?"

"Hmmm. An excellent question, mademoiselle. And not one that I have an exact answer for at the moment."

"I didn't think you the type to pay social calls."

"I'm not."

"Then what is this truly? A warning shot across the bow? An opening salvo?"

"Perhaps."

"Don't fight me, Monsieur le Fantome. You will lose."

"Perhaps."

There was a throaty chuckle that seemed to shiver in the air around her. "And then again, perhaps not."

Mireille's head was throbbing, and she fought to maintain her composure. "Well, as pleasant as this little chat has been, I am afraid that I must go now. It has been a long day, and I am tired."

"Yes, you must be. The circles under your eyes are terrible."

Mireille didn't bother replying, suppressing a quick, strange flash of anger. She stood up and put on her spectacles again, turning out the oil lamp in a gesture of defiance that showed she wasn't afraid of the dark or the men that lurked in it.

She picked up her folio of paperwork and leather satchel and crossed the office to the door.

"When you go for your dress-making appointment tomorrow, I would like for you to select something in midnight blue. I think it would suit you quite well."

Mireille opened her mouth in protest, then closed it without making a sound. As much as she wanted to yank the door open and slam it closed, she forced herself to open and close it softly and normally.

In the dark, silent office, a shadow moved and smiled to itself.

"So you are a woman, after all, my dear. Excellent."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry - but this is as far as I can post with this, as it is now being published full-length on Amazon. I have more stories coming, so keep an eye out for more stuff from me!
> 
> Angel Hands by Cait Reynolds will be available on Amazon on 2/14 in both Kindle and paperback.
> 
> Thank you all again for all your support over the years of writing this!

**I. Interlude**

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

The voice seemed so close that Mireille thought she could feel a whisper of breath against her ear. But she refused to turn like some startled filly and search for something she was quite sure wouldn't be there. She wasn't wholly surprised at the voice's finding her during the opening night gala. In fact, she would have been more surprised if he hadn't taken advantage of such a melodramatic occasion to renew their acquaintance.

"Not at all, monsieur," she replied, her lips barely moving as she smoothed down the drab olive green skirts of her three-year-old ball gown. "But the fact that my opera ghost pays such attention to my attire is rather amusing."

"I am not your opera ghost, my dear. You would do well to remember that."

"This is my theater. You haunt it. Ergo, you are my ghost."

"A pleasant conceit, mademoiselle. But with great regret, I am forced to make a small correction. This theater technically does not belong to you. It belongs to your father. And his partner."

Mireille bit her lip as his barb hit home.

She leaned her shoulder against the cool marble of the wall, the potted plant obscuring her from the eyes of the other guests.

"The sopranos in the chorus were flat tonight. The scenery painting had very little depth to it, and the last ballet dancer on the left in the second row back is about two beats off from everyone else."

"Have you anything else to say?"

"Hmmm. No. Other than that, it was a remarkably…remarkable evening."

"Oh good, I am so glad you are pleased." Sarcasm dripped in her voice like honey from a spoon.

The disembodied voice chuckled.

"Charming as this conversation has been, I must return to my guests," she said flatly.

"But of course, mademoiselle. We shall speak again."

"I have no doubt," she sighed as she moved past the potted plant back into the crush of hoop skirts and cravats.

 **II. Prelude**  
Erik had returned to the house by the lake feeling rather pleased with himself. His debut with Mademoiselle Dubienne had been highly satisfactory, and he didn't know which tickled him more, the fact that he had obviously frightened her or the way she had tried so hard not to slam the door.

During the quick trip back down into the cellars, he had also become comfortable with his decision to seduce her instead of kill her. The thought of killing a woman was vaguely distasteful to him. Besides, he needed a powerful pawn to checkmate the kings of the theater, and what better piece for the job than the queen herself?

He turned their encounter over and over again in his mind. Occasionally, he questioned his motives for revealing himself to her. It was an irretrievable step in a deadly chess game. He hadn't been able to help it, though, and if he was to regain control of his opera house, he would have reveal his presence at some point.

Besides he had been lonely.

He ground his teeth as his thoughts staggered down this uncomfortable path. It had been easy to be alone in a quiet, tomb-like opera house, with only the whispers of the breeze through broken windows and keening of a solitary ghost for company. But once living, breathing people had filled the place again, he felt the old, familiar yearning for something more, that damnable impulse to be part of humanity.

And she had been alone. And she had been tired. Her guard had been down.

And she had taken off her glasses.

He moved around his home, absently setting things in order. He paused in front of a small music box with a monkey dressed in Persian robes. He gently brushed the figurine with his fingertips, his breath catching in his throat.

Yes.

He would seduce Mademoiselle Dubienne…with his voice, with his music, with a melody that would haunt her night and day and that only she would hear.

His lips almost curved in a smile, but there was a touch of hardness in his eyes. This was no game of love – not like with, oh God, with beautiful, sweet Christine. No, no! God, the pain of love! No, never again. This was a pure game of power, and it was one he was determined to win.

The only pleasure he would allow himself was the thrill of fighting a worthy opponent. Mademoiselle Dubienne was no naïf, but she was a woman yet. And he was a man. Even with a monster's face, he was still a man. If within a month he couldn't have her twisted around his little finger in the ecstatic agony of unfulfilled desire to know and serve the opera ghost in return for his unseen attentions, well, he'd eat his mask.

 **III. Coda**  
It was four o'clock in the morning when the Dubienne carriage pulled up to the stately hotel particulier where Mireille and her father lived. With a sleepy smile, she accepted her father's hand as she stepped out of the carriage.

"A splendid evening, my girl," he murmured, dropping an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

"And a splendid headache I'll have in the morning," she mumbled, think of the endless glasses of champagne she had quickly imbibed after her encounter with the ghost. She was quite tipsy and relaxed, feeling nothing more than a pleasant anticipation of slipping between the sheets of her soft, warm bed.

"Sleep in for once, will you, my dear?"

"No doubt I won't be able to help it."

"Good. Now go to bed, ma petite."

"Oui, papa," Mireille replied, mimicking the way she used to speak as a little girl.

Once inside, her maids swooped down on her, sweeping her up the stairs, stripping her of her out-of-fashion ball gown and wrapping her in a soft white linen shift.

Mireille soon found herself snuggling happily down among the pillows and pulling the covers up to her chin. She was conscious of a vague sensation of the world tipping and spinning, but she figured that would go away once she fell asleep. Her eyes drifted closed, and her breaths deepened as she slid into the grey space between wakefulness and sleep.

A faint melody seemed to come to her, and her groggy mind – too tired to rouse itself to full consciousness – wondered if it was something she had heard at the ball. But it went on and on, carrying her on a gentle sing-song current of a lilting melody.

She dreamed she was making up words to go along with the music.

_Masquerade…_

_Paper faces on parade…_

_Masquerade…_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

That night, she dreamed of a dark prince standing in the window of a burning castle.

That night, Erik dreamed of a honey-haired princess asleep in a tower.


End file.
